The Doctor

When he returns I’m still

a fish: salmon-pink shiver

wrapped in grocer white,

examined, tender. If he notices

my gills he doesn’t tell me.

Says he’s sorry but I lack

the ability to birth. I know

I’m supposed to mourn

because he doesn’t laugh

when I say, it figures.

I’m half gay—on my mother’s side.

He doesn’t listen, or maybe

he can’t. Maybe he doesn’t

speak fish. He says

there are options for women

like me because unlike me

children without mothers

are plentiful. I tell him

the problem isn’t my body

but he doesn’t speak fish.

When he goes I peel away

the paper, look for a knife

to scrape away my scales.